The clock I stare at
ticks inevitably, metronomically,
counting out its mind-numbing
sixty beat-per-minute tempo.
It is without numbers;
only identical, equispaced decor
mars its sterile, vintage-modern
face. Deceptively rotationally symmetrical.
I rotate this clock,
also given the challenging name reloj
(in the Spanish language),
against its nature. Counterclockwise.
Minutes, hours, years
melt away, as this clock would
in a Dalí painting.
I begin to forget who I am...
I am a child, unwittingly happy,
threatened only by the future.
The clock lies forgotten; until
it decorates my room for the first time.
The clock I stare at...